


longview

by bevmantle



Category: Half-Life, freeman's mind
Genre: Alternate Universe, Exhibitionism, Fantasizing, Internalized Homophobia, John Wick - Freeform, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Trans Character, Trans Gordon Freeman, Trans Gordon Freemind, Trans porn by a trans author, Vaginal Fingering, honestly cant remember if i need to tag for anything else my brain is fried. think thats it tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:54:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28850919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bevmantle/pseuds/bevmantle
Summary: You let yourself slouch back into the couch, pissed off about having to watch the movie alone and then getting pissed off about that pissing you off. John Wick is fuckingawesomeand the other Gordons aremissing it.Again! And it’s not likeyou’rethe one who needs to see it, clearly. You already know all the lines, all the beats; you know all the different cars and guns...fuck, at this point, you’re probably more familiar with Keanu Reeves’ face than your own.You roll your good eye at no one, picking up the pillow and squeezing it against your chest. “That doesn’t mean anything,” you say. “Keanu Reeves is objectively hot. I’m allowed to say that he looks good, he's a celebrity. Who gives a shit.”
Relationships: Gordon Freeman/Gordon Freeman (Freeman’s Mind), Past Gordon Freeman (Freeman’s Mind)/Eddie (Freeman’s Mind)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 63





	longview

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is abt freemind having a crush on john wick and also involves freeman/freemind. it is so very very self-indulgent. i have nothing to say for myself.
> 
> minors click back now. thank u!
> 
> the internalized homophobia tag is there bc freemind is working thru his internal shit. he doesnt say anything homophobic tho and theres no offensive language or slurs or anything like that.
> 
> title from longview by green day bc a) freemind song b) dookie still goes hard in 2021

You’re sprawled out on the living room couch, illuminated by the soft flickering light that emanates from the TV. The tinny sound of gunfire erupting from the speakers in bursts is the only sound in the apartment, and even that’s muted—it’s late, after all, and you’re not trying to disturb the other Gordons.

This had to have been the _third_ time your movie night plans had fallen through on a day when it was your turn to pick the movie. The newest Freeman, the one who was always gaming or some shit, had gotten sucked into some kind of endurance stream, and he’d begged off to keep it going—he had rent to pay, after all. And as for the other Freeman—actually, you’re not sure what happened to him. Probably fell asleep at his desk doing his lab reports like a little bitch.

Well, whatever! Who needed them, anyway? You’d made yourself a bowl of popcorn, making sure to passive-aggressively slam a few things around in the kitchen while you did it, and slotted your well-worn John Wick DVD into the player. Then you had hunkered down on the couch, fully prepared to spend another evening alone.

“I once saw him kill three men in a bar with a pencil,” you drawl, in perfect time with the movie and in a fairly passable Russian accent, “A fuckin’ _pencil.”_ You bring a fist down on the pillow next to you in excitement. _“Fuck_ yeah!”

Boy, are you pathetic or what?

You let yourself slouch back into the couch, pissed off about having to watch the movie alone and then getting pissed off about that pissing you off. John Wick is fucking _awesome_ and the other Gordons are _missing it._ Again! And it’s not like _you’re_ the one who needs to see it, clearly. You already know all the lines, all the beats; you know all the different cars and guns...fuck, at this point, you’re probably more familiar with Keanu Reeves’ face than your own.

You roll your good eye at no one, picking up the pillow and squeezing it against your chest. “That doesn’t mean anything,” you say. “Keanu Reeves is objectively hot. I’m allowed to say that he looks good, he's a celebrity. Who gives a shit.”

As the movie plays on, your mind strays from the plot. You know it well enough that you barely have to pay attention, anyway. You let the lights and visuals wash over you as you drift off into thought. John Wick is just...so, so good at shooting. And driving fast. And being hot as hell.

Yeah, there’s a lot you have in common.

Something else that you’ll never fail to appreciate, no matter how many times you’ve seen this movie, is how methodical Wick is in his work: never a wasted bullet, always two clean shots to the chest and one to the head to make sure his enemies go down and _stay_ down. The way he pulls magazines from his pockets to reload his weapons between volleys is a thing of _beauty._ Wait—hang on.

“Am I _seriously_ getting turned on right now?” you say, letting out a little laugh in near-disbelief. You palm yourself over your shorts, feeling your hips buck up almost involuntarily. “That’s—it’s not because of _him,_ okay? It’s—it’s because of the secondhand adrenaline, all the guns and shit. _Plus_ it’s like—it’s totally normal to get turned on from seeing another man performing feats of athleticism! It invokes the—the competitive nature of the male brain, obviously, so of course my body would respond to—” you grit your teeth, grinding up against your palm, and it feels _so_ good. “To—to the s-stimulus, _fuck.”_

You hesitate for a second, looking back at the empty kitchen, before muttering “Fuck it” and tugging your shorts down. Might as well, right? Gordon’s asleep, and geeky gamer Gordon’s pretty loud—you’re sure you’d be able to hear him coming down the hall long before he could get close enough to see anything. Besides, it’s a good way to blow off some steam, and if no one else wants to watch the movie with you, then fine.

You’re more than capable of entertaining yourself.

You let you hand drift down, and your fingers dip into the wet heat of your folds. Fuck, how are you _this_ wet even though you’ve barely touched yourself?

“Okay. Maybe Eddie was right,” you say, clenching your teeth as the muscles in your belly tense and relax. “I really _do_ need to get fucked more.”

Of course, there had been an unspoken _by me, specifically_ at the end of Eddie’s statement, but...you’d chosen to ignore that. You’re not gay. Yeah, sure, you and Eddie fool around sometimes, but it’s just normal guy stuff. Stress relief. And if a weed-induced mutual jack-off session had turned into Eddie sucking your dick like his life depended on it, well, that had just been common decency, right? Every guy deserved to experience a really good blowjob at least once in his life, Eddie had said, and you were inclined to believe him.

Anyway, you like getting your dick sucked—that doesn’t make you gay. If Eddie likes sucking dick, that’s his cross to bear, and none of your business.

You give up on teasing yourself to press your wet fingers against your aching cock. “Aw, fuck.” You hold your middle and index fingers just far enough apart that your dick can press through, and you fuck your own hand like that for a minute, whining at the glide of skin against skin that pulls your foreskin back, the slight squeeze and pressure that your fingers provide. Your eye slides shut, and you let your head fall back against the couch with a sigh, absently registering the sound of continuous gunfire from the movie in your periphery.

Oh, yeah—the movie.

You crack your eye open, rubbing your dick in small circles as you watch John Wick shoot his way through the Tarasov syndicate’s nightclub. It’s one of your favorite scenes from the whole film. The fight choreography is incredible, the lighting is gorgeous; everything is working together like it’s a ballet, except there are _guns,_ which makes it fucking _awesome._

John Wick dodges and fires, pressing on through the club like an unstoppable golem as you watch. _God,_ that’s so fucking _hot._ An image flashes through your mind, unbidden, of what it would be like to have that singular focus turned on _you._

John Wick would fuck you hard and slow, you’re suddenly certain, making sure you felt _every fucking stroke._ Your breath catches, and you moan, rubbing yourself harder, pressing your hips up in search of more friction. “Fuuuuck.”

No way. No way! You are _not_ thinking about fucking John Wick. Straight guys don’t _do_ that! You squeeze your eye shut again, pressing a finger inside yourself with a gasp. Now that you’ve had the thought, though, your brain latches onto it and doesn’t want to let it go. You imagine Wick’s fingers inside you. Wick’s touch on your flushed cock. You start to think that maybe he would be tender, too—God, he’d probably cup your face in his hands and ask _You alright?_ after sliding in, waiting for your nod before fucking you so hard you wouldn’t be able to stand.

Your face is hot with sweat and shame, but you can’t stop thinking about it—can’t stop thinking about what his beard would feel like against your body, can’t stop thinking about tangling your fingers in his long hair; _God,_ his hair. You slip another finger into yourself, panting now, the wet sounds of your body audible over the sound from the movie. “Nngh— _fuck_ yes, right there—oh, God—”

The delicate sound of someone clearing their throat makes your eye snap open, and you stop fucking yourself, frozen in place.

“If I had known this is what you meant when you said you had something you wanted us to see, I’d have left my paperwork for tomorrow,” Gordon says, curiosity apparent in his low, measured voice. He removes his glasses, wiping the lenses on a corner of his t-shirt, then places them back on his face.

“This isn’t—it’s not—what the fuck? A _movie,_ I wanted to show you a _movie,”_ you choke out, pulling out and covering yourself with one hand while you crane your neck to glare at him.

Gordon steps further into the living room and sits down next to you on the couch so you don’t have to strain to look at him. He’s not touching you, but he’s close. “I’ll watch,” he says.

The hairs on the back of your neck prickle, and you feel yourself flush. You clear your throat. “The—the movie?”

“I mean…” His gaze, when it meets yours, is piercing. “It looks like you’re having a good time.”

“I _was,”_ you say. When Gordon doesn’t respond, you huff and look away, waiting a second before you make a move to pull your shorts back up. Without warning, Gordon’s hand shoots out and squeezes your wrist.

You suck in a breath. Gordon doesn’t acknowledge it. His eyes are trained on the screen, and you’d have thought he was ignoring you completely if it weren’t for the cool fingers currently pressed into your warm skin.

“Mind if I grab some popcorn?” he asks, not looking at you. He doesn’t even wait for an answer before he lets your wrist drop, and then he traces his hand over and across your stomach, dragging his fingernails lightly over the skin as your muscles jump. He grabs a handful of kernels from the bowl on your other side and retreats. “Thanks.”

“Hey—what—” you swallow, audibly struggling. “What the _fuck_ was that! Like, I’m just here, minding my business watching John Wick, which is a _sacred fucking film,_ and you come over here and—with your _fucking—_ you can’t just— _I’m not gay!”_

“Okay,” Gordon says with a shrug. He chews slowly, and a piece of popcorn squeaks when he crunches it between his teeth. You watch his throat move as he swallows. You were warm before, but now it feels like you’re burning up.

“Okay? _Okay?”_ You funnel the panicked heat that rises through your body into anger; it’s easy enough to direct it back out, and besides, you’re much more comfortable with that than you are with introspection. “Look, you could _clearly_ see what was going on when you came in, you didn’t have to come sit down and—and _touch_ _me_ in some kind of way while doing your whole cool aloof scientist thing! I didn’t fucking ask for any of that! I was fine by myself!”

“I don’t care what you do, as long as you do it quietly,” Gordon says, his tone mild. He gestures at the movie. “I’m trying to watch this.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “You _want_ me to—” You stop talking as he picks up the remote and points it at the TV, turning the volume up. You exhale sharply through your nose. “Okay. Okay! Fine. You’re fucking crazy, you know that?”

After waiting for a response, and getting none, you lean back and spread your legs once more. You become very aware, suddenly, of your own vulnerability, and you have to close your eye so you don’t get overwhelmed. This isn’t anything like the times you’ve fooled around with Eddie—those encounters had been about masculinity, somehow, and rites of passage; a couple of guys getting stoned and helping each other out. This is different. It’s almost nauseating, but at the same time, it feels intoxicating. Your thoughts flicker briefly to an image of John Wick running a warm and tender hand across your cheek and down your chest. You draw a shaky breath, lifting your own hand to trace the same path downward.

You’ve just barely grasped your dick between your fingers and started stroking it again when Gordon speaks up. “So what’s this movie about?”

“Oh, you have _got_ to be fucking with me right now,” you say. “Touch yourself, Gordon, don’t touch yourself, Gordon. Make up your fucking mind!”

“I already told you I don’t care what you do,” Gordon says. “I was just hoping you could tell me what I missed, since I came in late. I know you’ve seen it before, so.” There’s no difference in his inflection, no tell in his voice.

All the same, you know a challenge when you hear one.

So you grit your teeth, pressing your hand down to grind your dick against it, and speak. “All you need to know is that John Wick is a retired assassin, he’s—nngh—he’s married but then his wife dies, and her last—ah fuck!—her last gift to him is this, this dog.”

Gordon moves a little closer on the couch, turning towards you and reaching a hand over to caress your thigh. “Then what?” he says.

You narrow your eye. “What’re you—” Gordon reaches a little further, running two fingers over your entrance before pressing inside. You can’t help it; you moan. “Oh fuck, what the fuck—”

“Keep going,” he says, crooking his fingers and making you roll your hips.

“Ah—a guy kills his dog and John Wick comes out of retirement to— _ooh_ _fuck!_ To kill the guy who killed his dog! Okay, you’re—you’re caught uh- _huuhp!_ The end!”

Gordon nods, thrusting his fingers a couple more times. Then he pulls out, wiping his hand on your shorts.

You whine a little at the empty feeling. “Why’d you—what the fuck are you _doing_ to me?”

He looks at you. “I was fingering you.”

“No shit, asshole, I think I got _that_ part okay on my own,” you glare back. “I meant what the fuck are you doing to my _head?”_

“You don’t want this?” he asks.

“No!” you snap, without thinking. Then, a second later: “I—fuck off, okay? I do but I don’t understand _why!”_

Gordon shakes his head. “I think you need to work that one out on your own.”

“Fuck you,” you say, anger flashing across your face for a split second before you can collect yourself, drawing a thin breath. “Look, I just—I can’t—” You make a small noise of frustration in the back of your throat, and some other, unidentifiable emotion flits across your features, vanishing just as quickly as it had appeared. “Just...don’t leave me hanging. Please,” you say finally. Your voice is hoarse.

Gordon inclines his head, then turns to look at the TV again. “How does it end? The movie, I mean.”

You look at him, confused by the sudden digression, but he doesn’t elaborate, so you shrug and tell him. “A fight between John Wick and the boss who put a hit on him. He lets himself get stabbed in order to win the fight, stitches himself up in an animal clinic. He sees a dog that’s about to be put down and he takes it with him, roll credits.”

Gordon stares at the TV, not really watching the scene that’s currently playing out, seemingly lost in thought. He turns back to you and asks: “What were you thinking about? Before I came and sat down, I mean?”

You feel yourself flush. “I was just...watching the movie.”

“Hm,” he says, but drops it. “Do you think you can finish if I talk to you?”

Your flush deepens. “Yeah.”

He sits back, and when he looks at you, his gaze is loaded. Then he blinks, breaking the spell. “Okay. Go for it.”

You can’t help but snort. _“Go for it,”_ you repeat, mocking him even as you slide your hand down over your body again, knowing that he’s watching you. You wonder idly what he’s getting out of this. Either way, there’s no preamble this time. You have to contort a little bit to get two fingers inside of yourself, but it’s okay; your other hand finds your dick again, and then it’s _really good._

Gordon watches you fuck yourself for a moment before he speaks. “I think this is the first time I’ve seen you like this,” he says.

You bark out a laugh that turns into a bitten-off moan. “What, jacking it in the living room? Yeah, no shit.”

“No.” He shakes his head, serious. “I’ve never seen you this...vulnerable, I guess.”

You groan and close your eye, pulling your fingers out and rubbing yourself a little harder, a little faster. “Please tell me that’s not your idea of dirty talk.”

Gordon smiles a little, reaching over to put a hand on your thigh, rubbing it with his thumb. You hiss at the contact, your hips snapping forward because it feels _good;_ your skin is overheating again and Freeman’s fingers are blessedly, blessedly cool. “That’s what John Wick is about, though, right? Vulnerability?”

“Fuck off, John Wick is—is about _vengeance,_ and _shootouts,_ and—” You break off, knowing that whatever analysis you string together won’t be coherent enough to placate Freeman. It doesn’t matter, anyway. You know what John Wick is about.

“You think he’d be good in bed?” Gordon asks out of nowhere, and it throws your rhythm off. He strokes his hand up and down your thigh as you shudder.

“Shut up,” you manage to croak out, hand on your dick starting to move faster.

“Would you suck his dick?” Gordon asks the question like he’s asking you about the weather.

You feel a deep blush color your face and creep down your neck as you consider the question. Your gut reaction is a hard _no,_ but…

“Being at the total mercy of an unstoppable assassin,” Gordon muses. “I can see the appeal. Maybe he’d put a hand through your hair…” He lifts his hand from your thigh and strokes your hair instead, tangling up his fingers with the loose strands that have escaped your ponytail. For the barest second, Gordon’s knuckles brush against your cheek, and you turn your head to follow his hand, chasing the touch. He notices, and slides his index and middle fingers into your mouth instead, and you want to be mad at him for that, but _fuck,_ it’s so, so good. You settle for squeezing your eye shut so you won’t have to look at him. You hear him laugh a little as he works his fingers in and out. You feel pulled in fifty different directions, unsure whether it’s the thought of John Wick’s cock in your mouth or the solid reality of Gordon next to you or your own damn hand on your dick that’s making you feel like you’re coming apart.

You moan around Gordon’s fingers, and he removes them so you can speak. “Gordon,” you rasp, barely louder than a whisper. It’s definitely weird to hear yourself say your _own fucking name_ during sex, but there’s also no part of what’s currently happening that _doesn’t_ feel weird, so you just do your best to ignore it.

He swipes a thumb over your cheek, then leans in and presses his lips to the same spot. “Yeah?”

God, this is too much. It’s too much. But it’s not _enough._ You tilt your head back, and a sound that’s half-moan, half-sob forces its way out of you. _“Gordon,”_ you say again, with urgency.

“It’s fine,” he murmurs, tucking your hair behind your ear as you rock forwards, hips canting up. “It’s fine.”

“Oh, fuck,” you bite out through clenched teeth, “Oh, _fuck!”_

“Careful,” Gordon says, nodding towards the hall. “I’m pretty sure he’s still streaming, but...”

You press your free hand over your mouth, but it’s the thought of Gordon hearing you down the hall that finally, blissfully undoes you. You can feel yourself getting more embarrassed, and more embarrassed, and more embarrassed, until it all spills over and you cum, hunched forward and biting down hard on the meat of your palm with a muffled groan. After a second, Gordon reaches up and tugs your hand away, and you let out a long, heavy breath. Your dick pulses against your other hand. It takes a moment before you can gather enough willpower to move, and the resulting incidental contact with your dick as you pull your shorts up is enough to make you twitch and gasp.

Gordon shifts beside you on the couch, and you realize with a jolt that he’s got a hand inside his own pants. You’re too fucked out to seriously care, though. The muscles in Gordon’s arm flex and release in gentle rhythm. His features are soft in the flickering light, and you feel...a lot of things, all at once, though you don’t think you could put a name to any of them if you tried.

Gordon’s movements speed up a little, and then he goes still and exhales once, hard, and you realize a little belatedly that he’d finished. He collapses back into the couch, closing his eyes. You study him for a moment: the rise and fall of his chest, the lines of his face. He stirs and opens his eyes to look at you, and you look away, suddenly deeply engrossed in—in whatever the fuck is happening to John Wick, even though you’d long since stopped paying attention to the movie. It doesn’t really matter.

Eventually Gordon sits up, arranging himself with a little sigh. “You alright?” he asks, placing a hand on your thigh, and the simple kindness of the gesture makes the whole situation feel suddenly unbearable.

“Yeah,” you say, not making eye contact. “I’m fine, leave me alone.” Gordon’s hand squeezes your leg, once, and then he stands, stretching his arms over his head. Your gaze flicks down to the strip of skin that’s exposed where his shirt rides up, before you blink and force yourself to look back at the screen. You’re not actually taking anything in, though, so you grab the remote and abruptly shut the TV off. The movie’s almost done, but there’s no point. You just—can’t do it right now. You eye the DVD player in the near-dark of the room, wondering if you should leave the disc in or take it out so you can put it away.

“Leave it in,” Gordon says with a quirk of his lips, nodding at the DVD player. “In case you want to watch it again with me sometime.”

“Twist my arm,” you say with a snort. Then, after a moment: “So is this, like. A thing?” You try to keep your tone light. Casual. As far from _anticipatory_ as you can fucking get it.

Gordon looks you dead in the eye. “You’re not gay.”

“I’m—” You make a frustrated noise, then take a deep breath. “Yeah. I’m...working on it,” you say.

He appraises you for another moment. “Do _you_ want it to be a thing?”

You bite the inside of your cheek hard enough for it to hurt. “I don’t know,” you answer honestly. “Maybe.”

Gordon leans in, forcing you to tilt your head up in order to maintain eye contact. You can feel the puff of his breath against your mouth. He closes the distance and presses his lips to yours, but the contact is so brief that you’ve only just barely registered it as he’s pulling away.

“Let me know when you figure things out,” Gordon says, not unkindly. He reaches down and snags another handful of popcorn before he steps away and out of your line of sight. You refuse to turn your head to watch him go; instead, you listen to Gordon’s footsteps fade out as he vanishes down the hall.

Now that he’s gone, and there’s no movie playing, the room feels empty, especially with the only light coming from the hallway. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. Your legs are sticky with sweat and your thoughts are a scrambled mess. Despite the slight ache in your lower back, you’re somehow, unbelievably, _still fucking horny._ Christ.

It’s a long, long moment before you can push yourself up off the couch and stagger down the hall towards your room. Outside Gordon’s room, the muted sounds of some game filter through the closed door; as you pass by, you hear him laugh. Freeman’s room is quiet, but a soft light spills out from under the door—he’s probably still awake.

You make it to your room and collapse onto the bed, tugging your eyepatch off and dropping it on the bedside table. A small light spreads a muted glow throughout the room. You reach down under the blankets to touch yourself, movements languid. You idly try to fantasize, but all you can think about is _Gordon:_ The warmth of his hand on your thigh. The feeling of his fingers curling inside you. When you climax for the second time tonight—and the third, a little while after—it’s to thoughts of Gordon.

You lay awake for a long time, feeling a vague sense of dissatisfaction and not much else. The equation of your life is not a difficult one. It’s easy, _so_ easy, to solve for X. The solution you keep arriving at may be a bitter pill to swallow, but the correct answer is the correct answer no matter how you feel about it.

Fucking irritating.

You’re not going to get anywhere like this, though, sweaty and sleep-deprived. You sit up with a sigh and turn the fan on. You flip your pillow over, smoothing it out, and straighten your sheets before you lay back down. Eventually, you drift off into a restless sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> i started this fic thinking it would be around 1k and take me two days max to write. lol /dead
> 
> thanks for reading tho! comments/kudos are always v much appreciated
> 
> u can req my 18+ twitter [here](https://twitter.com/nocaulk) if youd like!


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